A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Takaaki, Part I

Since it is a dismally gray and rainy afternoon here in New York, I thought I would post another portion of my epic poem Takaaki, one which also takes place in the rain.

The whole poem is available in the current edition of the Raintown Review along with some of the finest poems and essays you are likely to find in any literary journal published anywhere.

I hope you like it!

Takaaki, Part I

“Paint me a pair of bold anfractuous rocksset somewhere in the Cyclades—a spottotally removed from Time. No clocks.”I’d settle for a sunny August, hotenough to melt an Erlenmeyer flask.We could emerge from a cool underpass,catch a guitar weeping, an old song,a crowd of children shrieking, a Great Lawnsurrounding people with some place to behurrying to different destinations.“Who comes to Central Park on their vacations?”I would demand of the demented beecircling a can of garbage going sour.Surely, God would not begrudge an hour

of timelessness unto humanity—his representatives on Earth. He musthave made us and forgotten us. Maybe.How else would you explain the missing bus,the leaky awning, and the pouring rain,this longing to be elsewhere? Hence, the planelanding on a distant isle in Greece—ahead of schedule—look—the Cyclades—bathed in Hellenic blue. And far below—almost invisible on the white beach—there is a tempting red umbrella whichI am convinced belongs to me. Although,it could be a reflection from the ad—for Travelers Insurance—that is bad-

ly flirting with me from across the street.A fault in one of its florescent lights.Flutter. Flicker. Blackout. And repeat—ad infinitum. How I hate these nights!These vicious, tantalizing sights! Tosay I hate New York would not be true.We have a strange relationship, I’d say.We need each other, sort of, in the waya sad, sadistic cop requires a good(but rather stupid) buddy on the forceto buy Budwiesers for him, post-divorce,hear how he has wrecked his life. Ours wouldmake a fine, redemptive movie script,down to the last, cheesy tortilla chip.

For now, a cone of pink chrysanthemums—to match the dozen frosted donuts Ipicked up from Dunkin’ for dessert—someblocks back, before Zeus unzipped the sky—will join our little shopping list. “Howmuch are these flowers,” I ask the fellowsweeping up the petals, thorns and leaveshe has been pruning. “Not the roses—these,”I point sharply at the mums again.the chalkboard with the prices on it hadsuffered like my patience from the maddownpour. Slowly a young Mexicanlifts five green fingers in front of his face—his exhausted face. What a place

to hide such beauty. “Yes, I’ll take those, thanks,”I mutter roughly, with embarrassment,pulling out a wet ten, with two yanks,sending a quarter rolling down pavementto gutter. Pirouetting on the drain,it spins to rest, shining in the rainatop a flattened cup—a blue pancake—supporting crooked letters that I makeout to read, ‘Happy To Serve You.’Exactly who is happy to be servingwhom lies beyond my powers of observingbecause of how the cup is crushed. In lieuof other parties with a claim to it,I give green fingers a five-dollar tip,

go retrieve my quarter from the cup,before somebody else does. In this town,some moments are too precious to give up.A lucky coin can turn your life aroundlike that: ‘Fortune rota volvitur,’rolling to the sewer your last quarter,while on ‘The Wheel of Fortune’ someone spinsabove an orange pyramid. Who wins?Who cares? I have my quarter and I’m glad.The best ten dollars that was ever spentby any man beneath the Firmament.Do I exaggerate? Perhaps a tad.But just a tad. That magic emerald handhas turned ‘The Wheel’ into a salsa band

by changing channels. How I love TV!Think of all the money that we couldsave on drugs and psychotherapyif human hearts came with remotes! A moodis altered just by tapping on your nose,fine-tuned further peeling off damp clothes,then fiddling a minute with a nipple.A politician still might come and cripplesex, now and then, Monday night footballpre-empt some dreary real-life dramawith dancing linebackers, or a bomberblowing up an airplane force us allto interview a few shocked families.But we could always turn off our TVs—

like that. Returning richer from the gutter,I collect my donuts and cut flowers.It seems the thunderstorm’s begun to splutter—which I attribute to my quarter’s powers,patting the faint circle on my thighembossed by my good luck. I decidethere is no point in waiting. I am wet.I can’t get any wetter now. I betthe guy who drives that bus is named Godot.Assuming this, and better weather later,we say goodbye to Jorge’s cramped bodega.I need to meet Takaaki for a show—War of the Worlds—at quarter after eight.Taka-chan will shoot me if I’m late.

Takaaki entered my life as a leopardprint belt being unbuckled at the Y.Until that Tuesday, we exchanged no wordapart from the prim, perfunctory, “Hi,”one naturally nods when in the shower—never letting eyes fall any lowerthan chin, if necessary, collarbone,carefully leaving ‘well enough’ alone—lest a long, luxurious lather blurthe fragile line of bubbles separatingreally clean from curious—creatingquestions about conditioners and whethergrapefruit is a proper, manly scent—even in a Thought Experiment.

Mesmerized by how that feline beltcrept through the four tight loops above his rear,my mind filled with four-letter words, spelt,‘Don’t ruin your Moon trip.’ Though sincere—poetic even—this injunction—itdoes not, I think, seem quite appropriate.We’re not inside a NASA locker room—pristine and clean and white. We’re in a tombbelow the ground on 47th Street,surrounded by abandoned towels so stiff,so stained with history, they’ve entered myth.I sprinkled fungal powder on my feetdiscretely. As my fairy dust descended,I wondered if his buckle was befriended

by anything besides his fingertips.I could, of course, conceive of other suitors:shaggy carpets, pant hangers with clipscoated in red rubber, folding doorswith tiny metal doorknobs cast from stainlesssteel. But it was none of my businesswhere, after leaving his seductive waist,his buckle might intend to hang, how chastehis companions: if they drink, or stinkof socks and jockstraps, Calvin Klein, or holdsilk stockings with more reverence, or coldhands in handcuffs, or dead cats. (I thinkwhat one discovers on a closet hookmore eloquent than any tell-all book.)

*Zip* that leopard slyly disappearsaround the tan-line of Takaaki’s hips.My eyes could spend the next ten thousand yearsbouncing on his hips. But then my lips,neglected and forlorn, might turn to dustbefore I could express my love. Or lust.I must not allow a sleazy rhymeto swallow his humanity. It’s timeto treat the true Takaaki—the sweet facewe’ll sit across from in a steaming bathin several stanzas—his smile, polite laugh,how his eyes crinkle closed when I placemy feet in the hot water and I ask,“Do you prefer my poems or pale ass?”